


The Return

by IsVampirismGay



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode: s02e05 The Return, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsVampirismGay/pseuds/IsVampirismGay
Summary: He hated being Comte de la Fere and when he managed to convince the baron of it was almost like literal weight off his weary shoulders. There was a promise, a deal and it looked like the villagers will finally leave him be. After all, Renard was only after more power and it looked like after he's gotten what he wanted he won't torment the people anymore.But then he had to go demand of Athos to bend the knee and Athos may not have had the title anymore but he was still too proud to bend to the unsavoury noble.When they tried to grab him, he reacted automatically, hand-to-hand combat training kicking in but there was only so much he could do.A hard blow to the spine was enough to get him down and for a while the physical pain made the world too blurry for him to care about it.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	The Return

**Author's Note:**

> yeah I basically watched s02e05 and decided that Athos actually Didn't suffer Enough and then in the second part I got possessed by the spirit of fluff and ended up tacking on like 300 words of UwU content
> 
> also rip to everyone who knows me just from my crack I hope y'all have something to take care of that whiplash

He was extremely good at pretending he doesn't have a hangover. His body was accustomed to digesting alcohol to the point that he'd have to drink a considerable amount of wine for it to do its job.

Most days this meant that when he'd wake up he'd have a pounding headache but mind and senses clear. Most days this was a good thing.

This was not most days.

He's gotten kicked around many times before, he's gotten tied up many times too, but this was something he's never had to endure.

He's wished for the blissful reprieve of intoxication and he could almost feel the taste of last night's wine in the back of his throat. He tried to imagine it being stronger, conjure last night's oblivion but the taste has quickly soured into cowardice.

Wine tasted like running away far too much these days.

* * *

He hated being Comte de la Fere and when he managed to convince the baron of it was almost like literal weight off his weary shoulders. There was a promise, a deal and it looked like the villagers will finally leave him be. After all, Renard was only after more power and it looked like after he's gotten what he wanted he won't torment the people anymore.

But then he had to go demand of Athos to bend the knee and Athos may not have had the title anymore but he was still too proud to bend to the unsavoury noble.

When they tried to grab him, he reacted automatically, hand-to-hand combat training kicking in but there was only so much he could do.

A hard blow to the spine was enough to get him down and for a while the physical pain made the world too blurry for him to care about it.

* * *

He lifted his gaze, looking at the people around him. The baron's brat was beating Bertrand with a whip.

Why did Bertrand try to interfere? There was no way he could have done anything to help him or anyone else.

He looked around, seeing other villagers stand around, keeping their distance.

There was a woman, in dark browns and reds watching. She seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn't connect a name to her face.

The brat finally left the poor sod alone and turned towards him.

He prepared his whip, breathing heavily and sweating under his armour.

He raised his arm and the whip whistled through the air.

* * *

The pain was white hot, lighting up the whole side of his torso. He's had worse, combat injuries that could have maimed him, but they were different. He's never been hurt like this.

He's never had a brat like this one land a strike. He's never had anyone relish in every bit of his pain and humiliation the way he did.

* * *

The next strike caught him on the sore spot on his spine, forcing air out of him.

The brat noticed it, eyes lighting up with sheer glee of bringing the former Comte so low.

The next strike was harder, the brat invigorated by the tiniest bit of suffering he's shown.

Athos steeled himself, letting the pain flare through his body but lean into the all too familiar numbness of the mind.

He may not be Comte de la Fere anymore but he wasn't going to let the baron think he was in any way submitting to him.

Another crack. Air got forced out of his lungs again. He sucked it back in only for another strike to knock him breathless once more.

The brat was also getting winded.

Athos looked up from under his messy hair and caught kid's eyes.

* * *

He had his arm raised, prepared to hit again, but the cold gaze of the former Comte made him hesitate. The tired pale eyes seemed to have pierced right through the flesh, seeing all the ugly things he was keeping beneath.

The brat shook his head, focused the gaze on Athos' unprotected abdomen and hit again.

The force and pain made the uncomfortable gaze go away.

The whip whistled through the air again.

* * *

Athos felt like his sides, abdomen and back were all on fire.

He was vaguely aware that soon there will be blood. Maybe it already was. He wasn't confident he'd be able to feel the difference at this point. He also knew that if this continued for too long there will be damage to his muscles. Though he was not present enough to feel afraid of the prospect of damage to his fighting abilities.

Another strike cracked over his back, the end of it hitting a particular spot that made him nauseous with pain and struggle to breathe.

His legs gave up the pretense of holding him up.

Another hit, this one feeling like a line of white fire on his skin. It faded into the background of sensations as he still struggled to get some air back into his lungs without emptying the pitiful contents of his stomach.

The whip cracked again, pain making his head swim. He let it hang low, gulping in air as he struggled to get the vision to steady and throat to stop choking.

The next strike once again faded into the background of all the other pain his body was in. His vision felt strangely blurry.

The next strike sent him reeling backwards, nausea returning. It burned all over his front, like a brand on the skin and punch to the gut all at once. He slumped forward again.

His hands were numb.

Renard must have said something, he realised. He tried to make his eyes focus.

A hand grabbed his hair and lifted up his head.

He found himself gazing at Baron Renard's face.

"Did you learn your lesson?" baron demanded.

Athos closed his eyes against the painful shine of the sun. Baron yanked his head further back.

"Soldiers are coming!"

The hand released his hair, letting his head drop back down.

One of the baron's men rushed to the centre of the village. Athos forced himself to lift his head and survey the situation.

Renard was barking orders now, the brat leaving to jump on his horse.

"Take him!"

One of the men approached him, dagger drawn.

Athos' eyes followed the blade.

It cut him down.

He slumped on the floor. The man put away his dagger and tried to get Athos on his feet.

He might as well make this difficult for him.

Athos let his muscles relax and gaze unfocus.

"Walk, damn you!"

The man groaned in frustration as he was left with no other option than to carry Athos. He dragged him to a horse and another set of hands helped him lift Athos on it.

Athos slumped forward, half-heartedly hugging the horse's neck to keep himself from stumbling down.

The man swiftly saddled the horse and grabbed Athos, forcing him upright.

"Release him!"

Athos knew that voice.

* * *

His eyes searched the surroundings, finding four familiar figures on horses. D'Artagnan was galloping in front of everyone, Porthos and Aramis close behind. Surprisingly enough, the fourth person entering was Treville.

Cold steel pressed against his temple.

"In the name of King's Musketeers, I command you to release him!"

Treville used his _Captain_ voice.

"Why should we?"

"This man is Comte de la Fere and you have no right to hold him!"

"Not anymore."

Baron Renard approached the Musketeers.

"He's not a Comte anymore," he announced smugly. "Which means he's nothing but a common vagrant who did nothing but cause trouble!"

"That man," Porthos said, anger simmering in his voice, "Is a Musketeer."

He pointed his gun at the baron and raised his eyebrow.

"If you have any grievances he's entitled to a fair trial in the court," added Aramis, "And in that case we're happy to accompany you to Paris." His polite words concealed the murderous look in his eyes.

Baron glared at the newcomers. He finally relented, gesturing to the man holding Athos up.

The man huffed angrily, putting away his pistol and shoving him off the horse. Athos slumped down on the floor, the impact raising dust that made him cough.

"If you want him that badly," Renard shrugged, "Though I fear for king's safety if men like him are in his supposedly _elite_ guard."

He spurred his horse and left, his men trailing behind him.

"Athos!"

D'Artagnan was the first by his side, followed closely by Porthos and Aramis.

"By God, you look horrible!" Aramis exclaimed.

Athos coughed something that almost resembled a laugh.

Porthos cut the rest of the rope on his wrists.

"What happened?" asked d'Artagnan.

Athos just groaned.

"It's good to see you alive," Treville's voice rang, "Even though you don't look very well."

"We should get you inside," Aramis said.

Porthos and D'Artagnan helped him up to his feet, the villagers directing them to the tavern.

* * *

Someone cleared a table and they helped him sit on it. He was still weak, still in pain, but somewhat more present in his body.

Aramis gently tugged off his shirt. It was stained with blood which made the fabric stick to the wounds. He hissed when the shirt was peeled off the raw areas, but otherwise kept silent.

D'Artagnan put away the ruined fabric. Athos watched mutely.

Aramis now took a pitcher with water and gently washed out the wounds. Porthos took a clean rag and gently patted the dirtied water off Athos' skin.

After the scorching sun the cold felt almost heavenly against his skin. Athos let his eyes slide shut and lean into the touch.

D'Artagnan took his hand.

"You've got rope burn," he said softly.

Somewhere in the back Treville was commanding villagers around. Their part of the tavern cleared up.

D'Artagnan took the pitcher that Aramis put aside and cleaned the bloodied marks on his wrists.

"Care to tell us what is this all about?," Treville asked, sternly looking at Athos.

He met Treville's gaze, neither nodding or shaking his head, just tired.

"We should wait a bit for these to dry," said Aramis. "I don't have any ointments on hand so this'll have to do."

Athos nodded in acknowledgement.

Aramis looked at him hesitantly.

"I wish we would have come sooner," he finally said quietly. He kissed Athos' cheek and gathered dirty rags, leaving the room.

"Be thankful for the stubbornness of your friends," Treville spoke up. "I was sure you were fine but they insisted on coming."

He looked down to the irritated skin and numerous open cuts covering his skin, his eyes softening. "And this time I should have listened more readily."

He leaned on the table next to them.

"It would be very helpful if you'd explain us what is going on with that lord saying you weren't Comte anymore."

Athos sighed.

"We've searched your room and found letters asking for your help," Porthos said. "Were you stripped of the title because of that?"

Athos shook his head.

"What grounds did they take the title off you?" asked Treville.

Athos shook his head again.

"They didn't take the title?" asked d'Artagnan.

Athos nodded.

"So you're still the Comte?" Treville asked.

Athos shook his head.

"You've surrendered your title?" finally said Porthos.

Athos nodded.

Aramis walked to their corner with an armful of clean bandages.

"I'm going to put these on now," he said.

"Athos surrendered his title," Porthos told him.

"That explains the lord's behaviour," commented Aramis after a moment of studying his face. He placed the bandages on the table, neatly readying them for use.

"Can you tell us why?" asked d'Artagnan.

Athos kept quiet, a pensive look on his face.

"Not having a verbal day, huh?" asked Porthos, to which Athos nodded.

"I'm going to talk to the people here," Treville said and left them.

They nodded in acknowledgement.

"Alright," said Aramis, "Can you lift your arms so I can get this bandage around?"

* * *

The lashes still stung him, the pain transitioning into a dull throbbing in the back of his mind. His body still felt heavy, too heavy to do anything really.

Maybe not too heavy to ride back to Paris.

Aramis' hands were gentle yet firm as he dressed his wounds. It wasn't the most pleasant experience, his skin was too raw for that, but d'Artagnan's touch on his arm grounded him before he could drift away in the fog of his head. Porthos stood by his side, helping Aramis as he was the most used to his way of working.

It almost reminded him of a different time, all four of them together, happy and unashamed. There was so much comfort in their presence and touch, but now it just made Athos feel dirty. He knew what he was going to do and what _they_ will think about it. It felt like he was deceiving them and stealing their affection, meant for someone that was not him.

He just wasn't entirely sure why they loved him like this. Not with his cowardice. Not with all the blood on his hands.

He allowed himself to leech off their love one last time.

D'Artagnan's hand was still covering his. He squeezed it lightly in thanks.

The he slipped off the table, legs unsteady but capable of holding him up without assistance. He reached out to Aramis, giving him a light kiss to his cheek, silently thanking him for taking care of him.

Porthos reached out to him, drawing him into a gentle embrace, mindful of his battered torso. He cradled his head and pressed a light kiss into his hair. "We were worried about you," he murmured and let go of him.

Athos ducked his head, avoiding their gazes.

"We'll help you make this right," d'Artagnan said quietly. "You don't have to do it on your own."

They've had so much faith in him.

It still wasn't enough to stop him from walking away, out to the tavern and towards the horses.

It did make it hard to look Treville in the eye when he brushed past him, so he rather kept his eyes down.

* * *

"Athos!"

He was slowly preparing to saddle one of the horses, the earlier lashing making his movements sluggish and his arms weak. He did kept his head down, ignoring d'Artagnan's voice.

"What are you doing, you can't just leave!"

D'Artagnan now appeared at his side, blocking his view.

"Treville told us what happened, these people need help!"

Athos met his eyes, stilling for a moment. He sighed, shaking his head and went back to preparing his horse.

D'Artagnan left. For once knowing when to leave things be.

"Athos."

He turned around, seeing Porthos approaching, d'Artagnan trailing behind him like a lost puppy.

"If I hadn't known you better, I'd say you're acting pretty cowardly," Porthos said. He was now standing in front of him. Athos could spy Aramis a bit further away, tending to Bertrand's own lashes and listening intently.

"This is not the Athos I know," said Porthos. His brows furrowed, almost like he was in pain. "This is not the Athos I fell in love with."

Athos swallowed hard, looking down. He couldn't look at his face even though he knew that he was going to hurt him. Knowing the inevitable didn't make it much easier to bear it.

Aramis has finished patching up Bertrand and was now making his way to Athos as well.

Athos turned back to his horse.

"You're not fit to ride."

He sighed.

A hand was gently placed on his shoulder.

"That baron, he had you whipped so hard you can barely prepare a horse to ride," Aramis said. Athos shrugged his hand off.

"Don't you want to get back at him?" d'Artagnan demanded. "For what he's done to you?"

Athos kept his head down and checked over the straps holding the saddle and stirrups.

"Well, we're not gonna let him get away with it," Porthos growled. "We don't take _all for one_ lightly."

"And we'll show him that Musketeers are not to be scoffed at," added d'Artagnan.

"Because we love you," Aramis finished.

Athos' hands stilled on the straps. He took a few breaths, trying to make the tightness in his throat go away.

"You know," Treville's voice rang over the clearing, "These are some pretty clever people. If they weren't plagued by a cruel baron they could easily govern themselves."

"What say you?" Aramis said quietly.

"Should we kick his ass?" asked Porthos.

"And then give de la Fere seal to the villagers?" d'Artagnan added.

Athos took a moment. The nasty thing that always urged him to _take another drink, go away, run so far away they'll never find you_ seemed to have been quieted.

He turned around and nodded.

If he looked straight into their faces the painful familiarity of the surroundings didn't occupy his whole vision and mind.

He reached out to them, drawing them into a gentle group hug, mindful of his battered torso.

"Glad to have you back," Porthos said wryly after they let go of each other.

"Come on, let's get you some food and rest before we get to strategising," Aramis said and together they made their way back to the tavern.

Treville joined them, smiling proudly.

* * *

And after the watery soup he's been led to a lumpy bed and told to try to rest. He still ached all over, but he was fed and taken care of and a burden that has been weighing him down for years was the lightest it's ever been.

They each gave him his kiss and Treville nodded at him from the door before he left. Athos closed his eyes, drifting into unconsciousness and this time his sober sleep wasn't marred by nightmares of the very place he was in.

He woke up two hours later and they've sat down at a table, together with Bertrand and Jeanne. They started discussing taking Renard down, Athos still mute, but everyone seeming to understand him just fine.

Later, a woman in red and brown walked in, acting like she owned his place and Athos felt himself tumbling back into the dark hole of despair at the recognition of her face. But he could feel Porthos sitting next to him on one side, d'Artagnan on the other and Aramis' legs touching his under the table and he just managed to catch himself before falling in.

* * *

"Athos."

Treville caught him as he was returning from the outhouse, getting ready to sleep.

"You've done and endured some very difficult things today," he said. "And I'm very proud of you."

Athos nodded, the moonlight too dim to show how his cheeks reddened.

"You're one of the finest men I've ever known," Treville added, resting his arm on his shoulder. "And I am honoured to have been your Captain."

He let his hand slip off Athos' shoulder and nudged him towards the tavern. "Go to sleep, I'm sure if I keep you here any further I'll get an earful of Aramis in the morning."

Athos huffed out a laugh and nodded his head in thanks.

* * *

When he went to sleep it wasn't just him in the bed, but Porthos and d'Artagnan piling with him in and Aramis insisting to keep watch on the chair at the bedside. It didn't last too long and in the morning Aramis was snoozing peacefully with his upper torso nuzzled with others on the bed.

When Athos woke up his body ached all over and bits and pieces from his nightmares were scattered all around him.

Porthos pressed a kiss into his hair and Athos turned around to kiss him back properly. He felt d'Artagnan sleepily nuzzling against him and Aramis woke up with a groan, stretching himself after a night spent in a strange position.

"Good morning," Aramis said and leaned on the bed, stealing a kiss from both Athos and Porthos while they still had time.

"Good morning," d'Artagnan mumbled into his chest before rolling over and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Athos kissed his forehead and then sat up with a sleepy groan.

* * *

He was never really one for words. When he was with _her_ he used them more, he would shower her in _I love you_ s and after all _that_ has happened he didn't trust words anymore because how could they be sincere when all _that_ was done?

Now he rarely said much, preferring to speak with the sword defending them, hands picking them up, mouth kissing them and they understood and spoke this silent language back to him.

Besides, he wasn't sure if human words could describe just how much he loved them, so he settled instead for showing it, one kiss, one action of devotion at a time. Just like they did for him.

**Author's Note:**

> you can pry nonverbal Athos from my cold, dead hands
> 
> don't forget to scream at me in the comments or on tumblr @dropdeadjack


End file.
